


there has to be a morning after

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mates, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Omega Jackson, Relationship Negotiation, Triad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: Jackson wakes up in Stiles and Derek’s bed. He doesn’t remember exactly how he got there.





	there has to be a morning after

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for Prompt #240 (Heat) at Fullmoon Ficlet. So, yes, I know the prompt really calls to mind these gritty PWP options, but I uh… I decided to go with the aftermath, instead, and had this whole thing in my head for it, so um, here. Have an OT3 on the morning after heat breaks.

Jackson blinks into the dim light that filters through the heavy curtains lining one wall. He rolls over, throws one arm out while the back of his other hand goes across his eyes, trying to block out even that dim light. Something moves under his outstretched arm, and he jerks it back, twists in place only to bump up against someone on his other side.

And he aches. Oh, holy fuck, does he ache.

“Shit.” He pushes up roughly, ends up with his knees bent, his sore backside stuck to the sheets, and his head bowed. He presses the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, whines softly.

“Hey.”

Stiles’s voice, a fleeting touch at Jackson’s lower back.

“The fuck?” Jackson pushes at him, yanks the covers up to find Derek just barely stirring on his other side. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

“You know, I said that exact same thing two days ago, when you showed up on our doorstep,” Stiles says dryly. He tugs the blankets over his naked lap, sits cross-legged just out of reach. Derek rolls over, whines when the blankets catch on Stiles and Jackson, and mutters as he untangles himself.

Jackson’s heart is rushing, twisting, clenching. He hunches over more, clasps one hand behind his neck as his face goes down between his knees, his other hand pressed tight to his chest. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“We did that, too—hey!” Stiles cuts off sharply at the sound of skin smacking on skin. Indignant. Jackson almost smiles at the mental image of Derek swatting him.

“Don’t be an ass,” Derek mutters.

And well shit, there they both are, completely bare-ass naked.

And here Jackson is, in their bed.

He can stare at the sheets all he wants, it isn’t going to change the fact that he’s here. “I showed up on… Tuesday?” he asks, voice hoarse and tight in his throat.

“Wednesday morning,” Derek replies. A light touch, and Jackson knows it’s Derek this time, fingers firm against Jackson’s lower back. “You were already well into your heat.”

Jackson rubs at his temple, feels an ache settling in there already. “And you… what.” It’s not a question. He knows damned well _what_. It’s obvious _what_.

“Jackson—”

“I didn’t ask you, I asked Derek,” Jackson snaps, cutting off whatever helpful thing Stiles was going to say.

“Jesus, we didn’t—we _wouldn’t_ —”

“What.” Jackson’s voice is flat. Dark. He has absolutely no memory of anything after Tuesday’s lunch, when he felt the hunger slipping into his mind. Nothing.

“You had a video,” Derek says, and that makes Jackson sit upright, eyes wide, staring.

“I had a… what?”

Stiles scrambles out of bed, pale skin bright in the dim sunlight. Jackson can count the moles, and just as abruptly, he remembers the taste of Stiles’s skin on his tongue. His body twitches, warms at the thought.

It doesn’t matter. His heat is gone. He can control himself now.

Stiles walks back as confidently as if he isn’t naked, certain parts half-hard and swinging in the cool air of the room. He sits on the bed, closer to Jackson this time, slides a phone into his hands.

Jackson’s phone, complete with the lock screen of Lydia and her twin daughters. He unlocks it, and it shifts to a background screen of Lydia and her husband.

It used to be Danny, but well, Danny’s not around now, is he? Danny’s met his mate and he’s off and married in Massachusetts, probably considering adopting little brats, and well, fuck, Jackson’s here.

Jackson’s _right here_ and well… shit.

“You showed up Wednesday morning, before dawn, and you shoved that phone at us and made us watch,” Stiles says quietly. Now that the phone’s unlocked, Stiles takes it, switches over to the videos. He slides an inch closer, his knee pressed against Jackson’s, before he starts it playing.

Derek’s hand does soft, soothing circles on Jackson’s back.

Jackson’s face stares out from the screen. There’s a clock in the background—it’s maybe an hour after lunch—and Jackson’s skin is already flushed. In the video, he exhales roughly, rubs a hand against his cheek.

“So,” video Jackson says. “I am Jackson Whittemore and I am of sound mind in this moment. Not for fucking long,” he adds with a dry laugh. “This may be the fastest my fucking heat has ever come on, and maybe that’s Danny’s fault, or maybe it’s because I finally figured it all out. I mean. Shit, I’m fucking this up.”

The image wobbles as Jackson in the video sets the phone down somewhere, frees up his hands to rub at his eyes, twist in his shirt. “I’m in heat,” Jackson says quietly. “And I’m going to try to do it alone. Danny was never my mate—we knew that. He just helped me out. And I… I know who my mate is now. Who my mates are. And fuck me, but I am never going to tell them this. Unless. If I can’t do this. Shit, if I can’t get through on my own, and I need help, you need to believe me.”

In the video, Jackson inhales roughly, and he stares intently at the screen. “I am Jackson Whittemore. I am twenty-six years old, and I am of sound mind. My mates are Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale and I am so fucked because they have no fucking idea and they’re already mated to each other. So fuck you both. I’m fine on my own. But….” His voice hiccups on the recording. “Fuck. If I’m not fine. If I come to you. If I show you this. Then I consent. Please. If I’m that far gone, and if I can’t do it by myself, please fuck me. Derek and Stiles, please fuck me.”

The video ends, and Jackson drops the phone from nerveless fingers. It slides off the edge of the bed, thunking on the floor and disappearing somewhere under a spill of covers.

“Fuck,” Jackson whispers.

“We could, but you’re probably sore—”

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice is low. Gentle.

Jackson shakes his head. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Look, I’m sorry I fucked with the two of you. I shouldn’t have come over.”

“Do you remember anything?” Stiles sounds pained.

Jackson risks a glance at him, just as Derek surges forward, kisses Stiles’s forehead quickly. Jackson ducks back, out of the way, leaving them space to be together. “Not really,” he says, and it isn’t entirely a lie.

There are flashes, maybe. Just pieces of memories, like the touch of a hand on his skin, lips skimming across his body. It was good with them, he thinks. Maybe really good.

“I should go.” Jackson shoves the blankets to one side, away from Stiles. He stands up, wobbling on shaky legs before he sits back down again, hard enough that he winces from the pain.

“You showed up on Wednesday morning before dawn,” Derek says quietly. “And you made us watch the video, because you wanted us to know that you came here on purpose. You made us promise to show it to you, after your heat.”

“After we took care of you,” Stiles says. “After we,” he gestures in a circle at all three of them, “spent two days in bed. Together.”

Jackson presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t want me.”

“Uh, try again, Jackson,” Stiles says. “Do you seriously think I’d let you in my bed if I didn’t want you? I don’t care how much you were panting for it. If there isn’t enthusiastic consent on both sides, I’m not even going to manage to get it up.”

Jackson snorts. “I’m everyone’s type and I was in heat. You’d be up.”

“That’s Derek, he’s the alpha,” Stiles says. “I’m not an alpha, I’m not an omega, and I am not ruled by your heat, which is good, because it means one of us had enough presence of mind to provide help with showers and remind us all to eat.”

Jackson’s gaze flicks to Derek, who raises his eyebrows, shrugs.

“You smell like my omega,” Derek says plainly. “You could’ve mentioned it at some point before you went into heat.”

Jackson spreads his hands, points to both of them. “You already had—”

“Each other? Yes,” Stiles tells him. “And now we have you, too.”

Jackson’s mouth closes. He doesn’t know how to argue with that, how to even address the concept. Derek takes advantage of the silence, sliding into the space on Jackson’s other side, pressing as close as Stiles does. They have him squashed between them, and it feels… right.

Jackson’s eyes flutter closed, and when he feels a palm press against his chest, nudging him to lie back, he goes with the pressure. They end up stretched across the bed, Stiles’s legs across Jackson’s, Derek’s hand over his heart.

“I wasn’t going to come here,” Jackson says quietly.

“Luckily heat-you has more sense than normal-you,” Stiles mutters. “Derek, you want to weigh in on this here?”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says mildly, drawing patterns on Jackson’s skin. “Did it ever occur to you that if we’re your mates somehow, then you would be ours, too? That we’d be incomplete without you.”

It hadn’t occurred to Jackson at all. In the wake of Lydia’s marriage, and Danny’s moving to Massachusetts, all Jackson had known was that he was on his own. That he was alone, and he’d found his mates and they were already mated. Just like everyone else in his life. “I figured it didn’t matter,” Jackson mumbles. “Everyone I know is mated.”

“It matters. Jesus, Jackson, you matter.” Stiles hitches himself up and over, straddling Jackson with his hands braced against the bed, just above his shoulders. He dips his head down, just barely kisses Jackson’s nose and it’s weirdly affectionate.

Jackson’s not crying. Fuck that. His eyes are watering from the stress.

Stiles smiles slightly, glances over at Derek. As soon as Stiles leans back, Derek’s there, one hand on Jackson’s cheek, turning him just enough to kiss him thoroughly. Stiles takes his turn when Derek’s done, taking the kiss deeper than Derek, tongue slipping into Jackson’s mouth, teasing him.

Jackson’s heat might be over, but his body aches for more already.

“We could go another round,” Stiles suggests.

“When everyone’s coherent and the consent is a little more obvious?” Derek asks, one eyebrow arched. “I’m in.”

“You’ll be in Jackson,” Stiles smirks, and Jackson shoves at his chest, flips them so he’s straddling Stiles instead.

Stiles just looks up at him. Waits. “You in, Jackson?”

Derek’s hand on his back, settled at the base of his spine, not dipping lower. Stiles’s hands on Jackson’s shoulders. They hold him carefully, without pushing him, but it feels like they’re drawing him in.

Like Jackson fits here, between them.

Fine. Maybe he can have this.

Jackson nods. “Hell yeah, I’m the one who came to you,” he reminds them. “You were just sitting around on your asses waiting for me.”

“And now it’s all about your pretty ass,” Stiles snarks back, grinning.

Derek’s hand slides lower, and Jackson arches into the touch.

“So the three of us,” Derek says quietly. “That’s a yes?”

“Fuck yes,” Jackson says. “If you’ll have me.”

Stiles snorts softly. “As if we’re letting you go now, asshole. You’re ours.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)! And if you're interested in my original writing, check out [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com).


End file.
